


Make It Better

by Totoffle



Category: Take That
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Light Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-30
Updated: 2012-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-11 01:02:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/472728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Totoffle/pseuds/Totoffle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poor Mark is feeling nervous about the start of one of the Progress shows at Wembley, but Gary has just the right thing to cheer him up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make It Better

**Author's Note:**

> The second TT fic that I've posted.
> 
> Ah, worried!Mark is always good, isn't it? As is dominant!Gaz (one day I'll write something without this in it somewhere, but not yet!). So combining the two, I apparently came up with this, which I finished ages ago and have finally decided to post. Actually, this first entered my head whilst I was at Wembley on the 4th of July :-D
> 
> All mistakes are my own, and there are bound to be some!

There's a tiny crack in the backdrop which Mark has taken to peering out of as the Pet Shop Boys begin their set each night. He hasn't mentioned the gap to anyone, just in case somebody tries to fill it - that would mean he couldn't gaze out at the waiting crowd, all euphoric, singing and dancing whether they know the words or not.  
  
Normally it makes him feel almost powerful; the fact that all of those people are (for the most part) there because of himself and his four best mates is rather an incredible fact, one that Mark usually delights in.  
  
Except, something isn't quite right tonight. As he stares out at the crowd, crouching on the floor with his fingers clasped tightly around two of the set's metal supports, Mark can't ignore his heart beating slightly too fast, and his breath sounding worryingly ragged. The knot in his stomach is tightening as every beat of  _It's a Sin_  thumps out of the speakers, so loud that he can feel each one of them in his chest.  
  
He's nervous.  
  
As he realises it, Mark feels ridiculous. Yes, it's a huge crowd, but they've played to just as many people several times before, and he's a bloody popstar, what does he expect? Nerves don't normally get to him anymore, but when they do... He swallows hard a couple of times, but his mind is too full of the many things that could go wrong.  
  
He might fall off the stage. He might fall off his caterpillar. He might fall off that stupid fucking robot that he's  _sure_  hates him. And it isn't just the threat of possible death or serious injury.  
  
No, his brain might betray him.  
  
He might forget the words. He might forget how to hold his bass guitar. He might forget the bloody dance for  _Pray_  -  _yes_ , they've been doing for years, but he's had more than enough time to forget it between last night and right now.  
  
There are other worries clogging up his mind, too, ones he can't do a thing about, and that makes it all so much worse. The lights or the sound or the mechanism to release the ticker-tape might stop working. Rob might stand there and announce he was only kidding about wanting to be part of it all again. The audience might boo or hiss or, even more terrifying, not react at all.  
  
It's all foolish, Mark is perfectly aware of that. But all the same he just can’t stop his head from spinning, and he's clutching the metal poles with such ferocity that his knuckles are rapidly turning white. It's the first time in a very long time that he  _really_  wants a drink.  
  
Someone approaches, but Mark can't move.  
  
He doesn't  _need_  to move; he knows who it is, anyway.  
  
"Alright, Markie?"  
  
"There's fucking millions of 'em, Gaz."  
  
Gary chuckles as he crouches down beside Mark. "Eh, not quite  _millions_ , love, we're not that popular. And even if we were, they wouldn't all fit in – this is Wembley, not Tiananmen Square."  
  
"True. But what if..." As he struggles to find the right words, Mark feels Gary's hand on his shoulder, and instantly his mood lifts a little. His stomach is still twisting painfully, but having Gary there goes some way to soothe it. He gives a sigh. "Oh, I don't know."  
  
"You feeling insecure again?"  
  
Mark turns around. Gary, the bastard, looks calm and collected. Even when he's unsure about something, he always seems serene and in control of the situation, and it's partly because of this attitude towards life that Mark had fallen in love with him in the first place.  
  
"I guess so, yeah," Mark sighs, suddenly embarrassed. "Sorry," he adds. "But there's something about tonight that's making me tense. What if something goes wrong? What if I make a prat of myself? What if they all hate it? What if they all hate...  _me_?"  
  
There's a pause whilst Gary considers all of this. Mark goes back to look through the gap, gulping as he sees yet more people squeezing into the already impossibly packed stadium, filling up even the crap seats he had just assumed nobody would want to buy. They're all just a blur to Mark, so far away and in so much of a bunch that he couldn't make out any distinct features or clothes even if he'd wanted to.  
  
All he can see is that there are an awful lot of them, and each one of them equals an extra person for him to make a fool out of himself in front of.  
  
Mark's concentrating so hard on his people watching that he nearly topples over when Gary tugs on his arm to make him stand up.  
  
"Wha-"

But he's cut off as Gary places a finger to his lips, holding it firmly in place until Mark gives up on trying to speak.  
  
"Shut up," Gary says. "I don't want to hear any more of your daft notions.  _Ever_. Those people out there love you. Almost as much as I do. And for good fucking reason, okay? You're bloody gorgeous and talented and perfect, and if you even think about disagreeing with me... well, you know what'll happen."  
  
Fire blazes in Gary's eyes, and Mark knows better than to argue. The last time he'd done so when Gary had  _that_  look on his face, he'd ended up with three large welts across his arse that had made sitting very uncomfortable for several days (all from Gary's famed pimp cane, of course).  
  
"Feel better?" Gary asks, slowly taking his finger away and gently stroking Mark's cheek with it. It's very relaxing.  
  
Mark bites his lip. He can't lie, not to Gary. "Sort of."  
  
" _Sort of_?"  
  
"Well..." Mark is digging his own grave, now, and only somewhat unintentionally. "I'm still feeling weird. What if I'm not good enou-"  
  
"Are you contradicting me, lad?"  
  
"No, no! I mean, I'm not trying to, I..."  
  
It's no good - he's in trouble, and a lot of it.  
  
Mark instinctively takes a step back. Gary is glaring at him rather menacingly, and even though he knows he'd never actually hurt him, Mark can't help but feel slightly afraid. After all, Gary is in exceptionally good shape nowadays, and once he gets in a dominant mood he isn’t likely to let Mark get away from him.  
  
The bright blue trousers Mark is wearing for the first part of the show don't have belt-loops, and so Gary has to make do with hooking his fingers into the red waistband and roughly pulling Mark towards him.  
  
"I told you not to fucking well argue with me," Gary hisses into his ear. "When I say you're perfect, you're perfect, right?"  
  
Mark mumbles a weak agreement, but it's still too late. He finds himself being pushed backwards into a corner, where it's dark and somewhat secluded. The crew are still dashing about and trying to get things ready, but the risk of being caught is what makes it so exhilarating.  
  
It doesn't stop him from being panicky, however, and he reaches behind himself for support, his hand landing on a little folding table that has been wedged into the corner for no real reason other than it simply wouldn't fit anywhere else. It's not the strongest of tables, but it's doing a better job of holding him up than he's managing himself.  
  
"I was going to wait until after the show for this, you tart," Gary mutters into his neck, obviously not concerned with such trivial things as the crew or the boys or the fucking _media_  finding them like this. "Or at least until Rob's set, depending on how good you were out there. But," he says thoughtfully, "I think you deserve it right now."  
  
And Gary is kissing him sweetly, almost suspiciously sweetly, but Mark is lulled into it, allowing himself to be caressed with the gentlest of touches. Their tongues slide against one another as their lips part, and he even loves when the stubble that Gary is so proud of rubs against his smoothly shaven skin, scratching it and making it tingle.  
  
The tender approach doesn't last for very long.  
  
In one swift movement, Gary lifts him up and holds him against the wall; Mark automatically wraps his legs around Gary's waist, all the while wondering how long this can possibly last before either Gary can't support his weight any longer, or before someone finds them.  
  
The latter thought sticks in his head, even as the kiss deepens beautifully. No matter how much he loves the thrill, Mark is still a dreadful worrier, and he realises that actually being discovered would very much  _not_  be a desirable situation for either of them.  
  
Grudgingly, Mark pulls his head back a little to break them apart. He does his best to ignore the glare Gary is giving him, and takes a deep breath to clear his mind.  
  
"We probably shouldn't do this, Gaz..." 

Briefly, Gary's expression turns to one of disappointment, but he quickly shakes that off and replaces it with an almost smug – but not really arrogant, because he's just not capable of such things, Mark thinks - look of amusement. He stands back, lowering Mark to the floor at the same time. "Oh?"  
  
"Yeah, I mean," Mark runs a hand through his hair, horribly aware of how edgy he sounds, "anyone could catch us, you know?"  
  
"I know."  
  
Annoyingly, Mark can't think of anything to say to that.  
  
"Okay, this is what's going to happen, now." Gary is all masterful and in control again, using the voice they both know Mark can't resist. "I'll count down from ten, and if you really don't want to go ahead when I finish, then we'll forget this ever happened, right?" He takes a step closer now, squashing himself up against Mark in the already cramped space. "But if you  _do_  want this, then by God you'd better have your trousers down by the time I get to one. Understand?"  
  
He definitely understands.  
  
Gary doesn't even get to the  _'en'_  of  _'ten'_  before Mark has his trousers pooled around his ankles, his erection creating an impressive tent in his suddenly much-too-tight underwear. There's a grunt of approval from Gary, and Mark can't help but smirk; the knowledge that it's him that causes Gary – Gary bloody  _Barlow_  – to turn into a mass of hormones and need makes his nerves from earlier seem but a distant memory.  
  
"Very nice."  
  
They don't have long before Neil and Chris will be starting  _West End Girls_ , and so as much as Mark would like to draw the moment out, he tries to mentally will Gary into getting on with it, very aware of the time restraints.  
  
Fortunately, he's not the only one. Gary glances to one side, obviously in an attempt to gauge just how long they've got before the backstage area will be swarming with people. He looks back at Mark, staring hard. There's the tiniest flash of something – annoyance, frustration, exasperation? – in his eyes, as he folds his arms.  
  
"Did you prepare yourself like we talked about?"  
  
Nodding quickly, Mark is relieved to see a smile spread across Gary's face – no matter how lecherous it is.  
  
"Show me."  
  
As quickly as he can, Mark turns around and leans over the table, sliding his underwear down as he does so.  
  
If he had been honest, he hadn't been sure that the lube would last until the end of the show, but it was always better not to argue with Gary when he was horny, slightly drunk, and had a 'brilliant idea'. Always better to just go along with it, and if it didn't work, then it didn't work.  
  
And anyway, it  _had_  sounded like a great idea at the time. The night before. In the hotel. When he wasn't waiting to go on stage to sing for thousands of people.  
  
But Mark could never allow himself to let Gary down.  
  
And so, that evening, about an hour before he'd knelt down to look out of his little gap in the backdrop, Mark had scuttled off to the bathroom and spent twenty minutes preparing himself for a fucking that he hadn't thought was coming until much later on.  
  
It hadn't been easy to get himself properly lubricated – normally Gary handled that – but Mark had done his best. And even though now it's trickling out a tiny bit (maybe due to the heat, Mark hadn't bothered to find out whether that particular brand of lube coped well with rapidly rising body temperature), he doesn't imagine that Gary could ever be displeased with his efforts.  
  
Sure enough, Gary lets out a low noise, almost a purr, which makes Mark want to fall to his knees and beg to serve. " _Good boy_."  
  
Gary is just undoing the button of his trousers when there's a rumble of movement from somewhere near them. The penultimate song is coming to an end, and the crew are getting themselves ready to set up the stage again.  
  
Without a second of hesitation, they press themselves into the corner, not daring to move or breathe until it calms down somewhat. The intro to  _West End Girls_  starts up, and they can relax a little.  
  
It's a warm day and he's sweating, but Mark shivers due to the lack of trousers, and he's ever so glad that he has Gary - wonderful, sensitive,  _kind_  Gary - to snuggle up to.  
  
But as the final chorus reaches its end, the wonderful, sensitive, kind Gary is being evil, truly  _abhorrent_  - one hand gripping Mark's cock and the other gently probing at his entrance, massaging and caressing in a way that drives Mark crazy. He writhes against Gary's fingers to try and get them deeper, but this is definitely a mistake.  
  
"Stop it," Gary whispers, "or I won’t do anything at  _all_."  
  
With an almighty effort, Mark stills his hips. 

He hears Neil saying goodnight to the crowd – followed by an enormous cheer which makes him grin despite everything – and Mark counts the seconds until the noise dims. It takes a long time, well over a minute, and he thinks he's going to go insane if he doesn't feel Gary Barlow inside him  _right fucking now_.  
  
The voices of Howard, Jason and Robbie talking to Neil and Chris are clearly audible now, but Mark can't work out where they’re coming from, exactly. They could be on the other side of the backstage area, or they could be much closer than that. Mark decides it's best not to dwell on such things, especially as there's not much he can do about it.  
  
When Gary wants to fuck, then that's all there is to it. And Mark has never complained yet.  
  
At last everything dies down a little as the crew start to set up on stage, and Gary turns Mark around again, giving him a little push to make him bend over. He hears Gary unzip his own trousers and rip open the condom that he had been planning on moving between every pair of trousers he was wearing that night – just in case.  
  
"Remember, keep quiet."  
  
"Wh-where're the others?" Mark pants, gripping onto the edge of the table to steady himself as Gary positions the head of his cock against his entrance.  
  
"Couldn't give a fuck," Gary whispers oh-so calmly, and, with one thrust, slams himself deep inside Mark.  
  
It takes everything within Mark to stop himself from crying out, but he just about manages it. Normally he would whimper and sigh and moan, all of the noises that Gary likes to hear, but this isn't a normal fuck, and things have to be done differently. At least the thrusting is slow and steady, so it isn't too difficult to keep control of himself.  
  
Suddenly, and entirely without warning, Gary pushes forwards, hitting  _that spot_  inside Mark, practically knocking the breath out of him. A whispered "Oh  _God_..." is all he can utter in response, and he's just about remembered how to breathe when it happens again, and then again and again and again...  
  
It's completely and utterly relentless, and Mark isn't sure how much more he can take. They play rough all the time, but this feels different. Not unpleasant, just different. Maybe it's because they're in such a rush, or maybe it's because Gary's in a particularly dominant mood, but Mark gets the sense that this won't be making love – no, this is fucking, pure and simple, with him needing Gary and Gary needing him.  
  
But then all coherent thought goes out of the window as Gary reaches around and grabs his cock in those talented hands of his. It's not a gentle touch – it's rough and needy, with just a hint of desperation – but Mark bucks his hips to the rhythm as best he can, groaning every time Gary strikes his prostate, whimpering with every squeeze of Gary's fingers.  
  
Mark feels so constricted in the forced hush; he would like nothing more than to scream for Gary – to show him just what he can do, just how good and obedient he can be. There isn't anything that excites him more than the sensation of Gary moving inside him, stretching his tired body to its limit, but always stopping just short of actually causing any lasting damage. He loves Mark far too much for that.  
  
Something takes over then, and even though he knows he's not supposed to move too much – it hasn't been explicitly stated, he just  _knows_  – Mark straightens up, and then raises his arms to try and wrap them around Gary's neck in an attempt to bring him closer.  
  
This doesn't go down well. Gary grunts, annoyed that Mark has distracted him from his task.  
  
" _No_ , Mark."  
  
But Mark, feeling defiant, clings on. He leans his head back to try and capture Gary's lips with his own, but the position just isn't right and he misses completely. Still he holds on, though, clasping his fingers firmly together in case Gary tries to shake him loose.  
  
Mark lets out an involuntary groan as the hand gripping his cock is slackened, and then taken away altogether.  
  
"No, please Gary..." Mark begs, immediately lowering his arms so that he can take over. But before he can, Gary bats him away using his now-free hand, then holds his arm across Mark's chest, pinning his flailing limbs tightly to his sides.  
  
"If you can't be good," he whispers into Mark's ear, "then you don't get to come."  
  
"Please Gary, please! I'll be good, I promise! Please, I... I need to..."  
  
If it weren't for the impending stage show in front of eighty-five thousand people, Mark has no doubt in his mind that Gary would just leave him like this for the rest of the night, completely beside himself with lust.  
  
However, surprisingly enough, being desperate to come does not (normally) a brilliant popstar make, and Gary knows this better than anyone. It's to Mark’s great relief that he has mercy, wrapping his hand back around the aching erection that has only got harder in his absence.  
  
"Th-thank you," he gasps, suddenly finding breathing and talking at the same time to be quite difficult. "Gaz, th-"  
  
Gary silences him by sliding two fingers into his open mouth.  
  
"Behave yourself, now," is all he needs to say.  
  
There's no need for words as the thrusting continues, harder and faster with each stroke. Mark resists the urge to bite down hard as Gary tightens his hold, obviously not willing to let him out of his grasp until he's eked out every last second of pleasure that Mark has to give.  
  
"Fuck," Gary hisses through gritted teeth. "You're such a little slut, aren't you? All ready and willing for me to do whatever I want with you... I bet you want to come, don't you?"  
  
Mark tries his best to respond verbally, but the fingers shoved in his mouth and the cock buried deep inside him combine to make it nearly impossible. He nods fervently instead, pushing himself back to impale himself on Gary even more.  
  
"Well, you'd better come for me, then."  
  
And that's exactly what Mark needs to hear. 

He sucks those skilled fingers deep into his throat as he comes, thickly coating Gary's hand in sticky sweetness. He can't stop his hips from moving, and the sensation of Gary still gripping his spent cock in a now very moist hand is almost too much to bear. The pleasure and pain all mingle together, and Mark is finding it difficult to stand up for himself, yet he has to because behind him Gary is nearing his end, too.  
  
"I love you, Markie," Gary splutters as he thrusts a final time, his steely resolve fading quickly as his climax builds, "I love you so much..."  
  
Gary comes then, in thick spurts that make them both shiver and want to cry out, but they don't, they keep it quiet and between the two of them, because at that moment there  _is_  nobody else. They forget that they're backstage at Wembley Stadium; they forget that they've got to go onstage and sing; they forget that anything and anyone else exists as sheer ecstasy continues to engulf them.  
  
Both completely exhausted, Mark slumps backwards as Gary slumps forwards, and together they hold each other up, muttering gibberish that only makes sense through the post-coital haze.  
  
"Markie..." Gary murmurs into his neck. Mark can feel him smiling against his skin. " _Beau_ tiful."  
  
Neither of them wants to pull away, but they have to. After all, they can't delay the start of the concert just because they're too shagged out. They untangle themselves reluctantly after only a few minutes of tender bliss, straightening their clothes and hair, before checking one another for stains and other tell-tale signs of what they've been up to.  
  
"Feel better now?"  
  
"Oh yeah, much better."  
  
This time, Mark knows he's given the correct answer, and it's the truth. He's rewarded with a radiant smile and a peck on the lips, and is overcome with love for a second; snuggling up so close to Gary that he can hear his gradually slowing heartbeat, relishing the feeling of Gary's chin resting on top of his head.  
  
"Good. And if you ever start feeling uneasy again, you just let me know. I'll soon sort that right out for you."  
  
"Cheers, Gaz."  
  
There's the sound of quick footsteps then, getting louder and louder until they can identify each pair of shoes – Howard's squeaking trainers, Robbie's clomping boots, Jason's more discreet brogues – and they spring apart at once, both of them praying that they're looking reasonably presentable and, at the very least, innocent.  
  
They move away from the corner and approach the steps that lead to the stage, making a huge effort to pretend to be deep in conversation. It's probably not very convincing, but it seems as if they've gotten away with it...  
  
"Are we ready boys?" Howard asks, an arm slung casually around Jason's shoulder. "I'm feeling really fucking good about this one!"  
  
"Me too mate," Jason says. "Let's get out there, eh?" 

Rob, who always comes out to see them onto the stage, is grinning. No,  _smirking_.  
  
"Have a good one, lads," he says, taking a sip of water as the crowd starts the ten second countdown.  
  
 _This is it_ , Mark thinks, feeling Gary give his arm a squeeze,  _and it's all going to be perfect._  
  
It's as the audience shouts "NINE!" that Rob pats Mark on the shoulder - "EIGHT!" - before exchanging an amused look with Howard and Jason.  
  
"SEVEN!"  
  
He leans in between Mark and Gary.  
  
"SIX!"  
  
"And by the way, you two-"  
  
"FIVE!"  
  
"-next time you fancy-"  
  
"FOUR!"  
  
"-a shag before a show-"  
  
"THREE!"  
  
"-make sure you aren't-"  
  
"TWO!"  
  
"-near a working microphone."  
  
"ONE!"  
  
It's only  _after_  the show that they find out it was a joke. 


End file.
